


White House Secrets

by plum_blossom



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/F, lesbian love story, lots of swearing, we need more Nora Holleran
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:01:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28612503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plum_blossom/pseuds/plum_blossom
Summary: Nora Holleran is wearing a metallic blue cocktail dress, shoulder-less and tailored. The tips of her blonde hair brush the skin of her collar bone, her nails are short and manicured, her make-up is nude and her eyeliner terribly perfect.“Right now you’re wondering why you didn’t have me removed from the list of invitees,” I say.Her blue eyes go from cool to piercing. “I’m not, actually. I’m wondering how the heck you managed to make Alexpromise youhe’d invite you again. Just how you got him to like you is beyond me.”
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Nora Holleran/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	1. Happy Fucking New Year

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, basically I’m just horny for Nora Holleran, I admit it. But c’mon I can’t be the only one, right?!

The sleek, black taxi pulls up in front of the White House next to other sleek cars. Someone get’s the door for me and I slide out of the backseat. The sky has already gone dark, but the Residence is illuminated and glowing from the inside. The very second my car stops, camera flashlights start blaring.

I am fashionably late to the party - Something that Robert Downey Jr himself taught me. It’s not like I enjoy priding myself on my over-night fame, but it does have its advantages to get cast in the newest Netflix show in 2017 and win an Emmy for best Supporting Actor the year after.  
For example, I get invited to the Young America New Year’s Eve Gala.   
Last year was my first time. Back then, I came timely and it was quite the horror show, really. I was the only actress in midst of politically mildly important people, sons of senators, interns, event managers and people I had (and still have) absolutely no idea of who they were. For lack of better company, I quickly turned to liquor and Alex Claremont-Diaz who talks too much, but is surprisingly funny. As far as I know, the party ended quite gloriously with myself pretty drunk, in my friend Tom’s arms as the clock stroke midnight. After that, my memory is hazy.   
Tom isn’t here today, but it’s not like I mind. Today, I’m alone and fashionably late and it’s glorious!   
Despite the failure of a good time I had last year, I’ve been looking forward to the Young America New Year’s Eve Gala ever since I got the invitation. Most red-carpet events are boring and exhausting, and most parties are even lamer. But the Claremont-for-President New Year’s Gala is _for once_ an actual, real, fun party. The people aren’t as stuck-up, seeing as it’s only young adults between eighteen and thirty years, and even those that are stuck-up will loosen up after the third drink.  
So, I’ve been looking forward to this! I’ve been looking forward to wearing this way too expensive Giorgio Armani suit, black hair pinned up, and ordering a way too expensive cocktail from the bar and being flirted at by people who are way too rich or way too politically important. 

Quickly I duck away from the paparazzi into the White House. Inside, a wave of loud music and colourful, dim lighting and navy and gold colours immediately washes over me.   
In no time, a young movie director, an ambitious actor and a seemingly stoned musician have introduced themselves to me. As quickly as possible without seeming too desperate, I cross the room through the dancing people to the bar.   
“A Margarita, please.” (Yes, sometimes my Hispanic ass is really fucking predictable.)  
The bartender nods and starts working swiftly.   
While I’m waiting, I’ve got some time to marvel at the interior design and appreciate the pop act playing. 

“If it isn’t Sofía!” A charming male voice says suddenly next to me and I turn my head to see Alex Claremont-Diaz grinning at me. 

“If it isn’t the First Mexican Son of the US,” I grin back. 

He takes the seat next to me and starts talking. “How have you been since last year? You still look breathtaking.” 

“Good. And I’m still not into men, Alexander.” The bartender hands me the icy cold glass and I take a sip. The alcohol leaves a sweet burning in the back of my throat. 

“Too bad,” he shrugs. “At least you’re a win for the ladies.” 

I smile. “And so are you.”

“Ooh, was that a compliment?”

“Don’t let it outgrow you.”   
I’ve always like the young upstart and his humor. He hasn’t got a stick up his ass (for a change) and can actually take a joke.   
We talk for a few more moments before his (ravishing) sister demands his attention and he excuses himself. Not without ordering a glass of whiskey beforehand, though.   
Alexander, the heartthrob of heartthrobs, son of witty Mexican senator Diaz and the first female President Claremont, vanishes between dancing and drinking and chatting people as he follows June.   
She gives me a smile and I want to say something before they both get taken in by the crowd, but nothing gets out.   
While I’m used to being around beautiful girls that aren’t interested in me at all, I still get tongue-tied around them. I’m not actually a hot Latino lesbian who knows how to flirt with Zendaya, but I’m rather the averagely-attractive Hispanic nerdy lesbian who used to read Marvel comics as a kid and trips over in high heels.   
Anyways, it’s not like I’m crushing on the President’s daughter. Deliberately, I return to my drink. I can handle alcohol way better than beautiful women. 

“A gin tonic. Thank you.” The cool, female voice next to me catches my attention and I raise my head. 

“Oh, hello.”

“Hi,” the young woman says, friendly at first, but her smile immediately fades as she recognizes me. “Oh. It’s you.”

Nora Holleran is wearing a metallic blue cocktail dress, shoulder-less and tailored. The tips of her blonde hair brush the skin of her collar bone, her nails are short and manicured, her make-up is nude and her eyeliner terribly perfect.

“Right now you’re wondering why you didn’t have me removed from the list of invitees,” I say. 

Her blue eyes go from cool to piercing. “I’m not, actually. I’m wondering how the heck you managed to make Alex _promise you_ he’d invite you again. Just how you got him to like you is beyond me.”

“He’s got a confusing taste in people. Excellent when it comes to invitees, horrible when it comes to ex-girlfriends.” 

“Would you mind taking your drink into the other end of the room?”

“To the dance floor?” I can’t help but smile. “Why, is that you asking for a dance?”

“That’s me asking you to get out of my face and as far away from me as possible in the same go,” she bites back and takes her drink from the bartender. Gin tonic. God, she’s _white_. 

“You look swifter on your feet than me in that little dress; why don’t you go if you’re minding my presence so much?”

“Whatever, _Alda-Catalina_.” She rolls her eyes and vanishes in the crowd, seeing that clearly I wouldn’t leave the bar.   
Alda-Catalina. Of course she would remember my whole name being Sofía Alda-Catalina Guerrero. Nora and her stupid photographic memory.   
We go to University together. Precisely, to the CCAS, the Columbian College of Arts and Sciences, the largest school of the GW.   
One might think that at a college of 42 academic departments it’s really fucking unlikely to cross paths with someone who isn’t even studying the same as oneself, but despite the odds, Nora Holleran, the daughter of the Vice President and flagship graduate of GW, and I have had the _pleasure_ of running into each other multiple times. 

Nora has majored in political science and economics and uses the GW for her research projects. And honestly, do I need to say more? She is _tiring_. And not even funny. I cannot for the life of me, understand why someone as laid-back, as interesting, as diligent, as down to earth, as cool as Alex and June would possible want to be friends with someone like Nora.   
The woman is basically a human computer. And a know-it-all on top of it.   
Oh, and her taste in art is horrible! Who the fuck doesn’t like Midsummer Night’s Dream?! You _have_ to be heartless not to like Midsummer Night’s Dream. 

It takes me my whole Margarita to get over my grudge against Nora Holleran. So, I order another one and then go to mingle.   
I am not an extrovert. I’m an English undergrad who gets nervous tics when confronted with strangers that don’t match my vibe and I need tons of time for myself; but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a night out. Those Hispanic hips _can_ swing and I do like swinging them.

Time passes quickly when you’re surrounded by deafening music, alcohol, confetti and young celebrities.  
Out of a sudden, it’s 11:59 and I am positively _drunk_.  
Some twenty-year-old boy has his arm slung around my shoulders and drags me into the crowd. I take an enthusiastic swig straight from a Champagne bottle and huddle up with all the other people as to not miss the countdown.   
That’s when a blonde woman in a blue cocktail dress pushes past my shoulder.   
“Hey!”  
“Sorry.” She shoots me a look and she looks good. My head’s too fuzzy with booze to think about the reply I give.  
“No problem, beautiful,” I grin through the alcohol.   
“Oh, fuck off, not you again!”   
I frown, stagger backwards. Who was I just talking to? Whatever, she was pretty. Oop- and there I go tumbling towards the floor. 

A hand curls around my arm and I’m pulled up. Suddenly, there’s floor beneath my feet again.  
“Oh. Oh, thank you!”   
I’m met with a pair of blue eyes and high cheekbones. “You alright down there?”, comes a thick British voice.   
Blinking, I look back at the man. He seems familiar, but I’m too drunk to identify him. “Yeah. Thanks.” 

“Five, four!” Someone has started a countdown.   
I join in at the top of my lungs, “Three, two, one!”   
My eyes, originally seeking for June, get caught on Alex who is intertwined in a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss with no other than Nora Holleran. There’s cheering all around me. Alex pulls away from Nora’s mouth, lips flushed and he grins, and I want to throw up. It’s probably the alcohol...   
Next to me, the British guy grabs the Champagne bottle from my hand and takes a deep gulp. _Mood,_ I think and look back at Nora and Alex and the next second, the British guy has vanished from my side. 

Loud music takes over me once more. I am washed away and onto the dance floor. At this point, I don’t even care who I’m dancing with. I’m surrounded by Happy New Year’s wishes and hugs and exaggerated flirting.   
A vaguely register June dancing with a stranger in a colorful bomber jacket on the other side of the dance floor, but not even that can properly get through the layers of dizziness to my brain and upset me. 

What does get through is Nora Holleran suddenly next to me. She’s popped out of nowhere and she has long legs, has a couple of endlessly infuriating inches on me.  
“What the _fuck_ are you doing here?”, I slur over the sound of the music and purposefully bump my shoulder against hers.

She almost loses her footing, but it doesn’t keep her from yelling back, “Fucking dancing, you fucking idjit! What are you doing?!”

“What does it fucking look like?!” 

“Like a- a drunk dog!” 

“I’ll show you a drunk dog!” Without really thinking about it I reach out to push her. This time, she does loose her balance and footing completely. In a desperate (and unlucky) attempt not to fall, her hand curls around the lapel of my dinner jacket.   
For the second time that night, I am sent sauntering towards the floor, almost in slow motion, I am falling, falling, reaching into vacancy for balance and then I’m landing. 

Nora’s back hits the floor with an unhealthy thud. A dull pain sets in as my knees hit the parquet. I find myself unfortunately positioned on top of Nora, my waist half pinning down hers, my arm draped over her chest and my nose squished against her naked collar bone, buried in her perfume. “Fuck.”  
“Ouch, get _off_ of me!”  
“I’m trying! You’re-“  
“Let _go_!”  
“For fuck’s sake!”   
She pushes and untangles herself and finally Nora is standing over me, breathless, her hair now a little messy and her face sweaty. “JESUS!”  
Dazedly, I prep myself up on my elbows. “It’s not like I could have known you can’t take a little push.”  
She scoffs. “You’re literally the biggest pain in the ass I can imagine.”   
“Does that make me special?”  
“Oh, fuck off!”

My head swims. I watch her get swallowed up by the crowd. It takes me a moment to collect myself, stand up and stagger towards the bar. I’m a little disheveled from the fall and definitely too drunk. I order a cup of cold water.  
And sure enough, a little later, I’ve sobered up quite a bit and I realize that I’ve been an complete and utter asshole. Almost ruefully I go to look for Nora. Sure, I don’t like her, but I should apologize nevertheless.  
And in doing so, I run into Alex.  
“Alex, hey. Can you...”  
He cuts me off, “Have you seen Henry?” He seems out of breath. His cheeks are reddened and his eyes wide.   
Frowning, I give back, “No, sorry. What Henry?”  
“Henry, _the_ Henry. Prince-Henry-of-Wales Henry.”  
“Oh!” I frown again. “Sorry, can’t help you.”   
“Never mind.” He’s already making a run for it again, but I manage to stop him:   
“Wait!”  
“What?”  
“Where’s Nora?”  
“What?”  
“Where’s Nora?”, I repeat a little louder.   
“Oh! Uh, by the buffet I think.”  
“Thank you!” But he’s already gone. 

The buffet has been arranged in another room and if I were better with history and politics, I’m sure I would know the room’s name, but I’m not and so I don’t.   
A couple of guests are gathered around the buffet, chatting and loading their plates with food, but Nora is nowhere to be seen. However, I recognize the director that introduced himself to me earlier on. He’s talking to a handsome man in his late twenties who’s wearing a tux with the bow tie undone.  
“Excuse me? Sorry to bust into your conversation.”  
“Miss Guerrero! You’re not disturbing at all.”  
“I’m searching for Nora Holleran, have you seen her?”  
“No, I’m sorry.”   
But I’m lucky. The bow-tie man turns and looks at me and says, “Actually, yes. I saw her go outside just a moment ago.” He raises his arm. “That door over there.”   
“Oh, thank you so much! Good evening, gentlemen!” 

With a few, hurried strides I’m over at the door and then, almost suddenly, I’m outside.   
The night engulfs me. I’m standing on the lawn behind the White House next to some shrubbery.   
It’s cool, but not uncomfortable. The fresh air surrounds me and suddenly everything is quiet. No music. No clinging of glasses, no chatter, no pricey shoes on parquet and the opening and closing of doors, no rustling of fabric, no exaggerated laughter.  
Just my breath and the cold of the night. 

“I can’t believe that not even here I’m safe from you.” 

I turn around.   
Nora Holleran is leaning against the wall of the White House, reservedly overlooking the lawn in front of her. She is looking as distant as always and immediately I am reminded of why I would never usually seek out her company.  
A soft sigh escapes me as I bite back a sassy reply. “I came to say sorry.”

She cocks an eyebrow, but still doesn’t look at me. “Oh, really? For what exactly? Cause there’s a lot you should be apologizing for.”

With a huff, I let myself fall against the wall as well, on the other side of the door. “Can it just count as a general apology?” I glance over to her. 

There’s a pause. “Why this sudden change of heart?”

“I’m horribly sober,” I respond.

She actually laughs. It’s surprisingly warm and bright and surprisingly contagious. _Maybe she’s not all as cold as she seems._  
The sound fades and there’s silence again, interrupted only by the noise of distant fireworks still being lit even now, hours after midnight.   
“I’m not going to apologize,” she suddenly says. _Nope. She totally is as cold as she seems._

I roll my eyes and scoff, “Well, I didn’t expect you to, though it would be totally appropriate.”

“You are the one to constantly bump into me in Uni.”

“Hah! Do you think I _wanna_? If I had my way we wouldn’t ever come face to face with each other.”

She turns her head to look at me and I make eye contact for a moment. Then, I notice her hands. Her right hand is tightly closed around her left wrist. I frown. “Did you hurt your hand when we fell?”

She looks away. “Might have.”

“Shit, I’m sorry. Are you otherwise okay?”

“Yeah, don’t freak.”

“I have good reason to, though. Might get sued for damaging Government property or something.”

“Ha-ha, very funny.” Her tone is sarcastic, but there’s the slightest genuine smile tugging on the corners of her lips.

“I’m just saying,” I smile back. 

There’s another pause. I watch my breath form little clouds in front of my mouth. 

“I didn’t hurt my wrist,” she suddenly says. 

“What?”

“I didn’t hurt my wrist.” Her fingers slip off her wrist and she raises it to show me. There’s a green plastic patch on her skin.   
As I don’t react immediately, she explains, “Nicotine patch.” 

“Yeah, I... I know.” Almost automatically, I open the button on my cuff and slide the sleeves of my shirt and jacket up to my elbow, revealing a patch of my own. “I stopped smoking a month ago.”

“I didn’t know.” 

I shrug, looking at her. “I didn’t know you had an addiction either.” Ah, yes. Here they come: my inexistent social skills. “Wow, shit. That’s, like, a dumb thing to say, isn’t it?”

Nora snorts a laughter, looking down. “Yeah, it is.”

The cold air creeps against my exposed forearm and just now I’m realizing that, “You must be freezing.” 

Nora raises her eyes at me again, sort of surprised. “No,” she says slowly.

“There’s literally goosebumps on your arms and shoulders. You should really go inside.”

“When exactly did I ask you to tell me what to do?” 

I blink, tilting my head. “I was tryna be _nice_.”

“Were you tryna be nice when you hit on me a few hours ago?”

I furrow my forehead. “Hit on... what? What are you talking about?”

She scoffs. “Chances are, you were too drunk to even remember.”

“Girl, the _last_ thing I’d do is _hit on you_!” I’m almost amused. “No matter how drunk I am or was.” 

“Okay, so can you go now?”

“Excuse me?”

She sighs in the way she always does when she has to repeat herself - like she’s better than you, because you can’t follow her train of thought or whatever.   
“I came out here to be alone and you’ve apologized - which was what you came here for, wasn’t it? - so you can go now. Please.” 

I want to talk back, but really why should I? It’s not like I’m keen on staying out here in the cold with a person I don’t even like.   
I push off the wall and throw a look at her. “Okay. Fine.” I make my way to the door, but I hesitate and hover in the doorway. “I’m going, then.” And almost aggressively, I shrug out of my dinner jacket and toss it into her arms and in the next second I’m inside again, surrounded by warmth and pop music and the smell of food. 

It’s clear to see that I’m not in the mood to party anymore. I bid my goodbyes and soon I’m back in an elegant black taxi and the engine hums and the houses pass by outside. And I’m deeply lost in thoughts. For a moment, I let myself wonder whether Nora put on the jacket. Or whether she froze to death.   
I’m still a little intoxicated with alcohol. That’s why my thoughts are sloppy and that’s why I gave Nora my jacket and why I should totally get some sleep. I will have to get my dinner jacket back sometime. It was really fucking expensive. Gee, why did I care about her being cold in the first place? She can happily freeze to death. Why should I care? But apparently I did. I did care and I cared enough to give her my jacket.   
Too tipsy and too weary to deal with those thoughts, I push them aside and concentrate on the low hum of the car engine. 

My flat is in the second story of an apartment building in West End. I flip the lights on, kick the door shut and slip out of my shoes and clothes. “Happy new fucking year,” I whisper to myself and stumble into my bedroom.   
I make a mental note to not ever go to the Young America New Year’s Eve Gala again, before I collapse into the double bed and promptly fall asleep. 

The next morning, after taking an aspirin, I answer Happy New Year texts on my phone. I call my family; Mamá and my little brother, Juan.   
They tell me about their New Year’s Eve. Juan wants to come visit me. I content him with the promise I’d come home in a couple of weeks as soon as my Uni work allows me to, time wise. 

Deliberately, I do not think about Nora Holleran. I wouldn’t waste the first day of the new year on thinking about someone I don’t even like! Instead, I talk to my long-term best friend Jim over the phone.   
“Happy new Year, dickhead,” I greet him. 

He chuckles on the other end of the line. “Sofía, happy new year!”

“How are you doing?”

“Great,” his deep voice comes through the speaker. “But I haven’t seen you since last year!”

“Ha-ha.”

“Sorry. That one was kinda bad. Anyways, we do need to meet up soon.”

“Yeah. I miss your stupid face.” Absentmindedly I pick at a loose string on my pullover. “Would you like to go for brunch today? Are you free?”

“Brunch with my annoying bestie? Duh! When and where?”

“Hm. At _Luca’s_ in an hour?”

“It’s a date.”

“See you, then!” 

Jim and I have known each other since kindergarten. We dated briefly in Highschool back when I hadn’t figured myself out yet. It’s sort of a miracle how we’re still friends after all the shitty fights we’ve had, but I can’t imagine life without him. And I don’t want to, either.   
As I arrive at the Café, Jim pulls me into an embrace and I find myself surrounded by a pair of muscular arms and pressed against a buff chest. Jim is tall and black-skinned and ravishingly handsome and it makes me chuckle every time, because I know the version of himself that’s thirteen years old with ever-broken glasses, braces, grass-stained shorts, wiry limbs and a nose that’s too big for his round face. 

“Feliz año nuevo,” I grin. 

“Same,” he gives back and I burst into laughter as we sit down at a table for two. 

“So,” he leans over his eggs with ham and looks at me expectantly, “How was the Young America New Year’s Eve Gala?”

I roll my eyes. “You’re not usually curious about weird celebrity events.” It’s true. And one of the reasons he’s my best friend. He doesn’t care in the least that I’m famous. 

“Oh, you know I don’t care about the event, I care about how your New Year’s Eve was!”

I smile and knock open my hard boiled egg. “Well, it was okay. The party was on and I got pretty drunk and I danced and I talked to Alex Claremont-Diaz.”

“And did you talk to June?” His tone goes suggestive. 

I shoot him a warning glare. “Shut up. And no, I didn’t.”

He leans back, grinning. “Pussy.” 

“Jerk. I did talk to _Nora_ , though,” I groan. “We ran into each other on the dance floor and then I had to apologize to her.”

“Ooh,” he says, knowing full well about my grudge against the daughter of the Vice President, “I can see it in my mind’s eye: Friends to lovers, 70k words, slow burn.”

“Ew, hell no! I would rather date a brick wall.”

“Oh, but consider: A brick wall can’t do rapid mathematics.”

I laugh, “Yeah, well.”

“Imagine the sex,” he goes on, “She could whisper formulas to you as you come.”

“Please stop.”

“I’m just saying, what can a brick wall do?”

“A brick wall doesn’t accuse me of hitting on it and then tells me to go away and makes me throw my jacket at it.”

He blinks and gives an amused scoff. “You did what now?”

I sigh. I didn’t mean to go into detail about this. I swore I wouldn’t waste the first of January on thinking about Nora Holleran, but here I am.   
“You know how I’m easily irritated when I’m drunk?”

“Hah! Yeah?”

“Well. I might have pushed Nora on the dance floor and we both fell, because well, I was drunk and an asshole. When I went to apologize to her, she was outside and it was cold and it was just the two of us and honestly she was being kinda mean, but, like, surprisingly okay. And anyways I went inside then and she didn’t and it was cold and she was wearing barely anything.”  
Jim’s eyes have shot up to his hairline by now.   
“So, I gave her my jacket. Well, I tossed it at her as I went in, rather.” There’s a tiny pause in which he gives me an incredulous look. “Anyways. How was your New Year’s Eve?”

He lets out a long breath and turns his attention to the toast in front of him. “Oof. Not as interesting as yours.”

“Did you celebrate with your family?”

“Yeah. It was... considerably fun. I told you how Christmas was horrible?”

“Yes.”

“New Year’s wasn’t as bad. No fights at least.”

I nod, knowing full well he doesn’t want to talk about it, and for a few minutes we eat in silence. The _Café Luca’s_ isn’t very busy, but there’s the chatter of people and low music and the pleasant smell of tasty, fresh food and it’s good. Life is good. I’m with my best friend and it’s a new year and... 

“Can we come back to this whole Holleran affair?”, Jim says and leans in with knitted brows. 

I sigh a laughter and roll my eyes. “Don’t call it that. It’s not an _affair_.” I put it in air quotes.

“Oh, but it is!” He insists, “You threw a 500 dollar jacket at her, because you didn’t want her to get cold, and you haven’t bothered getting it back yet. It totally is an affair.” 

“I threw a 470 dollar jacket at her because I was _drunk_.”

“And you couldn’t bear the thought of Nora Holleran shivering in the cold night, all by her own...” He’s grinning. 

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Do you fantasize about it? Maybe she slipped into it and _your smell enveloped her_...”

“You read too much fan fiction about me.”

“... _warm and comforting, like a cup of coffee, and she can’t help but think of you, back at the party, looting the buffet all by yourself_...”

“I never should have told you.”

He grins at me over the edge of his cup. “Hey, I’m just saying, I’ve always liked the ones where they start off as enemies and then slowly realize that they’ve actually fallen in love.”

“You are the worst,” I laugh, “Trust me, no matter how much I hate disappointing you, I wouldn’t _in my wildest dreams_ get together with someone as fucking exhausting as Nora Holleran.”

“Too bad.” He cuts his ham and shrugs. “So are you gonna get your jacket back?”

“Duh!” I make. “I’ll probably see her at Uni tomorrow anyways.” 

“And you think she’ll have it?”

“She’d better!” 

The conversation then drifts and touches on different topics; from New Year’s Eve dinners to over-seas shooting locations, ass-kicking English exams and Jim’s newest album.   
Honestly, he never fails to make me laugh and get me to open up about my troubles. We talk about family, my little brother’s graduation from Highschool, Jim’s sister’s wedding. 

The rest of the day passes quickly. I get barely any work done, but I’ve honestly needed that. Suddenly it’s late and the sky is going dark and I decide to go to sleep early and start the year off right, seeing as I’d have to go to Uni tomorrow. 

I end up watching Netflix until midnight. Whatever.


	2. The Uni Project

It’s been a horrible day so far. Tired and lazy and caffeine-deprived, I enter the library and head for the free student wifi area in the back. I have three exams coming up next week and I haven’t started on my essay on Edgar Allan Poe’s different phases of creative working yet, so it’s about fucking time.  
My coffee date with Jim lays back in time two weeks from now and I haven’t seen him since. I haven’t gotten around to visiting my mother and my brother either. Yes, I am terrible. At least I got my dinner jacket back. It came via post in a brown box with an official White House sticker. Distant and cold - very Nora Holleran. I’m not complaining though, because that way I don’t have to talk to her about it. 

I sit down on the only free table between a blonde girl and a light-skinned boy. At this point, the only thing I care about is the cup of coffee in my hands and I take an eager gulp. _Fuck, yes._  
Feeling slightly more energized, I plug in my laptop and start it. 

“You know, there must be other ways of yours that don’t involve invading my personal space on a frequent basis,” a sharp voice says next to me.

I raise my lidded eyes. Immediately I recognize the blonde girl next to me now. (How did I miss it when I first came in?) She’s bent over at least ten different files and three books and her laptop.   
“I... Hi. Nora. I didn’t expect you here.”

“Oh, I’m sure you didn’t,” she says sarcastically and makes a show of not looking at me. 

I’m confused. “What the hell are you implying?”

“In the past week you’ve ‘accidentally’ bumped into me,” she puts it in air quotes, “four times. It’s like you’re fucking shadowing me. What do you want? I gave you your jacket.”  
I scoff. “I’m here for dubious records of Edgar Allan Poe and coffee, so if you’d just let me work, please. I’m not _shadowing_ you, that’s ridiculous!”

There’s a pause and she goes back to her papers.   
“Fucking Edgar Allan Poe.”

Rolling my eyes, I return to my research. But it’s kind of hard doing research when your elbow keeps bumping into that of a person you absolutely despise.   
I groan. “Can you keep your hands to yourself?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You keep nudging me!”

“I’m not!”

“Jesus!” I stand up and aggressively collect my stuff, yanking the cable out of my laptop. “I feel like _you’re_ the one who wants something and can’t fucking keep out of my way!” I shove my laptop into my bag, shoulder it, and pick up my papers and my cup of coffee. “There is literally no point in even trying to work next to you.”

“Fine, piss off, then. You’re just disturbing everyone at this table anyways.” I hate how she still sounds calm and reasonable.

And I’m too mad to even throw an insult at her. “Bye!”, I just spit and angrily make for the library’s entrance.   
She might be mumbling a, “bye” after me, or maybe a sassy comment, but I refuse to listen to what she’s got to say. With a couple of long strides I’m over by the wooden double doors. I shift my stuff into one arm and press them open.   
How come Nora and I can’t even spend two minutes together in civility? She’s infuriating! It’s not my fault the spot next to her was the only one that was free. And it’s not my fault we’re always bumping into each other on the corridor! And it’s not my fault she’s the famously _smart_ member of the White House Trio and I’m the well-known Hispanic actress at our Uni. 

I storm out of the building and head for my car. It’s a second-hand Suzuki Swift in red. It smells of coffee beans, late night car rides, road trips with Jim, chocolate and worn out fabric. There’s a milk shake stain on the backseat that’s been there for so long I’ve gotten used to it and am almost fond of it by now.   
The door clanks shut and immediately I’m a little calmer. I release a sigh and take a sip of coffee.  
Whatever. I’ll do my research another time. I start up my car and drive home. There’s still a ton of other things I need to revise for the upcoming exams and I do intend to be productive today. My agonizing encounter with Nora isn’t going to stop me. 

An hour later, I’m half-asleep, head resting heavily on my desk. 

Pallid light is falling in through the window onto me and my paperwork and I feel utterly _dead_. The paper cup of coffee is emptily lying in the trashcan and there’s a sort of disgusting mup next to my head that’s also empty except for some sludgy coffee debris.   
_Brrrrrrr_ , my phone goes and I very slowly raise my head. 

Someone’s calling me. I pick up the phone and squint my eyes at the screen.   
I press the green button. “Mami?”

“ _Sofía, mi amor!_ How are you doing? Is everything alright? I haven’t heard from you in days,” she goes off in fluent Spanish, “You should have called me!”  
There’s something oddly comforting about hearing her rant. 

“Hey, mamá. I’m fine,” I respond, also in Spanish. “Lots of work, tests, papers, essays... I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

“Your brother is asking when you’ll come. You wanted to call us about the date, remember?”

A sigh escapes me. “Look, my life is super stressful right now. Can I maybe... Can we do this a little more... spontaneously?”

There’s a tiny pause on the other end. Then, my mother’s voice comes very softly. “Sí. Claro. But are you sure you’re alright? You sound worn out.”

I smile even though she can’t see. “Yes, I’m fine. Just a little tired.”

“Well, get some good sleep.”

“I will. Thank you, mami. Say hello to Juan for me. Tell him I’m trying to come visit, but I have a lot on my plate right now.” 

“Sí.” Another small pause. “How was your day, mi amor?”

“Full of work. I’m still studying right now- Well. I was, a second ago.”

“Of course. I don’t wanna interrupt your work. I’m proud of you, muchacha. Te quiero.”

“Love you, too, mamá. Talk to you soon.” 

“Sofía?”, she says quickly before I can hang up.

“Yes?”

“You will come on the 21st?”  
I close my eyes and clear my throat. My hand curls around the phone a little tighter.   
“Yes,” I answer, “Of course.” 

“Good. Thank you. Good night, mi amor.”

“Good night, mami.” I hang up, my mouth suddenly dry. Of course I would be home for January 21st. It’s a dark day. And you don’t spend dark days on your own. 

On Monday, January 16th, Uni is weird.   
All students that have taken Advanced Composition Studies are gathered in one of the main halls. A member of the academic staff (whose name I cannot for the life of me recall and I do not care to know) has stepped up in front of us. He looks like his name could be Prof. Brothelos Netherdun. 

“Dear students,” he says and his white beard quivers a little with every word, “In an attempt to lead you into the field of practical research and multi media work, I have decided to involve all of you in a little experiment. For one week, you will work together with a researching graduate of this college in the fields of either politics, journalism, law, or economics.” Chatter arises from the crowd, and he continues a little louder: “For this week, they will be your guide and give you an insight into their work day. By the end of the week, you shall have written a report of your experiences, including an account of what you’ve learned and done. Now, on this blackboard over here we’ve written down the pairs.” He points at the blackboard behind him where several sheets of paper with name lists have been hung up. “Please step up to look for who your partner is and contact them as soon as possible. E-mail addresses are provided next to the name as you can see. The project begins on Monday and will last the whole week. Mind you to be respectful and attentive, students, thank you.” 

This is a weird idea. But it’s not a bad idea. On the contrary; I’m looking forward to gaining some practical experience in professional writing! And to working on a project with someone else, too.   
I nudge my way through the talkative crowd to the blackboard. G for Guerrero. I should be quite in the beginning. _Ah_ , there it is and...

All the color leaves my face. _You’re fucking kidding._  
This must be a mistake. I gulp and stare at the name next to mine, black on white, as if staring at it for long enough could maybe change the letters. It doesn’t, obviously.

“Oh, hey, Sofía!”   
Half-present, I blink at a boy called Thomas Smith who has been trying to make friends with me since he found out I’m an actress. “Who did you get?”, he asks.

I’m unable to respond. And I don’t want to talk to him.  
So, he looks for the answer himself, following my glare. “Oh, sweet!”, he says, “Nora Holleran! Shit, that’s the jackpot. She’s hot and famous and you’re gonna learn insider Government information! Man, I wish I were in your shoes.”

“You wanna... switch?”

“Girl, I’d _love to_!” He shakes his head helplessly. “But it’s not allowed, I already asked. Pete offered to switch partners, too. But they wouldn’t let us. Said they got it all set up, no changes now.”

“Oh,” I say. _Fucking bullshit!_ , I’m thinking.   
“Well, I... I gotta head.”

“Oh, okay. See ya!”

“Bye.” I shoot the list a last look, double-checking whether I didn’t just confuse the lines, or misread, but no - There’s my name and next to it, there’s Nora Holleran’s name and next to that, her email: n.holleran97@gmail.com

Welp. At least it’s only for one week.   
I try to calm myself, tell myself it’s all not so bad, but I think of Nora’s perfectly neat handwriting and infamous calculating skills and the fact that she’s a politics-economics graduate and a TA and I want to throw up. I should have stuck to acting. Screw this whole English Major to the stinking place!

I sit through four more classes and then I’m finally released into the wild. Completely exhausted, I leave the campus. It’s been a draining day - even my creative writing course that I enjoy so much usually has been absolute shit. I’m in dying need of coffee. Good coffee.   
My beloved car purrs to life and I roll off down the street. 

The ‘State Coffee’ is not my favorite coffee place (My favorite coffee place is ‘Luca’s’ because it’s tiny and nobody asks me to sign their receipt.), but I do have to admit that the ‘State Coffee’ makes the best coffee in town.   
It’s always busy and as I push the door open, the noise of chattering wafts out and a little bell jingles. 

“Sofía Guerrero! I wasn’t expecting so many guests of great renown,” the waiter behind the counter says, eyes big as I step up to order. 

I gesture him to keep his voice down. I’m wearing a knitted pullover and a pair of wide leg pants and my hair is a MESS. The last thing I need is a whole Café bothering me about my celebrity status now. Luckily, the other guests don’t seem to have heard his comment.   
I slide onto a bar chair. “So many?”, I ask, picking up on his comment.

He nods his head to his right and I turn my gaze. A few yards to my left, a woman my age is leaning onto the counter, waiting for her coffee. Dark hair falls in strands over her face and her nails are long and manicured and she’s wearing a Burberry trench coat and sunglasses and I know for a fact I’ll see a snapshot of that outfit on the next issue of ‘People’.   
It’s no other than June Claremont-Diaz herself. 

“Oh,” I choke out. 

_Fuck_ , is the next thing I’m thinking, because June fucking Claremont-Diaz has fucking caught me staring at her. I swallow. Wave. Force a smile. _Fuck, she’s pretty._

To my utter surprise, June smiles back. I almost fall off my chair. And then she pays for her coffee, takes the cups and busily leaves the shop.   
I force my eyes back to the counter. 

“What a girl, right?”, the waiter is saying. He should be about my age. 

I just nod. “I’d like a cup of coffee, please. One cream, five sugars and two shots.”

“Bad day, is it?”, he asks conversationally. 

“No,” I lie. I’m not feeling conversationally right now. Wisely, he shuts up.

My mind replays what just happened. Shit, I even _knew_ that the White House Trio likes to get their coffee from here. The place prides itself on that. Still, I wasn’t expecting to run into June. The fucking prettiest girl of America. And she smiled. She smiled at me. She probably just did it because that’s what you do when you’re the President’s daughter and need to maintain a reputation. But still. She smiled at me. 

I gulp down a long sip of sweet coffee. 

I’d really have to write Nora fucking Holleran an E-mail for some stupid Uni experiment that I didn’t even sign up for. Great!   
And I still need to deal with that visit to my family, I remember, and immediately drown the thought in another gulp of coffee. I slide money over the counter, nod my head at the waiter and pointedly, but subtly dodge a fan trying to approach me from across the room.   
I slide into my car, take another sip, and then turn the key. The engine springs to life and a sigh escapes my lungs. 

I’d write the email first. Get the most uncomfortable thing out of the way. 

_A full hour later,_ a terrible realization has dawned on me. The realization: Writing an E-mail to your pretty-much-enemy because of a Uni project, after having thrown your 470 dollar jacket at her and not having spoken a word since, is much more difficult than I expected it to be.   
What do you write a despicable know-it-all who basically lives in the White House? 

I run a hand through my hair for what feels like the tenth time and stare down the empty draft for the mail. 

_To: n.holleran97@gmail.com  
From: Sofia.G.11@freemail.us   
Headline: stupid uni project_

And that’s all I have. I’m indecisive. Maybe I could go for humorous, even though I doubt that Nora’s a very funny person. But then again, this is an official Uni thing, so I should keep it formal.   
All her E-mails probably get read by someone else anyways. 

Again, I sigh. And finally type a quick text. It’s the ninth I’ve written so far. (I really shouldn’t be putting so much thought into it.) 

_Hi, Nora,  
This is Sofía Guerrero. You’re my partner for the Advanced Composition Studies project. I’m supposed to contact you.   
Spitefully,   
Sofía_

That should do. My brain wants to overthink again, but I can’t spend the whole day on this, so I quickly click the send button with my mouse and there it goes.   
Some of the strain leaves my body. We’ll see how that goes. It’s not like it matters. Because I don’t like her and it’s only for a week and she’s probably too busy with the campaign to pay me or Uni much thought anyways. 

My phone rings.   
_007_ it says on the phone and a smile appears on my face as I pick it up. 

“Emma,” I greet.

“Hello, Sofía!” My agent sounds delighted. That’s always a good sign. 

“What’s up?” 

“Guess who just called,” she says and I can hear her grin smugly.

“Area 51? Do they want you back?”

“Better. Guillermo Del Toro’s agent called.” 

I lean forwards in my chair. “Whoa, whoa, whoa; Hold up. _The_ Guillermo Del Toro?! Crimson Peak? The Shape of Water?!” 

“Yes,” Emma’s voice confirms. “They want to make a third season, Sofía, and he’s writing and co-directing it and they’re bringing your character back.”

“Oh, my god, yes! That’s- that’s crazy! Did you say yes?”

“I’m a professional, Guerrero, I need to check in with you first.”

“But you did say yes immediately, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I did.” 

“Knew it!” I stand up from my desk and start pacing the room, suddenly overcome by unexpected energy. “You did the right thing. Thank you, Emma. This is amazing! Keep me up to date. And tell him he can contact me directly if he wants. Give him my number.”

“He already has it. Also; When have I ever _not_ kept you up to date?”

“Never, and that’s why you’re the best.”

There’s a laugh at the other end of the line. “I’ll contact you as soon as I know anything more specific.” 

“Yes, do that. Thank you.”

“Goodbye, Sofía.”

“Bye, Emma!” And I hang up.  
I’m so full of energy, I need to go for a run. But first, I need to call my mom. With the newly found joy in my chest, I manage to talk to her honestly and happily.   
I tell her about the third season, making her promise not to tell anyone else, because it’s still confidential, and then I assure her I’ll come visit over the weekend, Saturday through Sunday. I can almost see her smile as she hangs up, warmly calling me her muchacha. 

Quickly, I change into some beige jogging pants, a thin hoodie and hat, and my old trainers. The cold air outside fills my lungs with a stinging sensation as I take a deep breath. Soon, it’s just the rhythm of my feet on the asphalt and my breath and my pulsing heartbeat. 

Somehow, this day has turned into a pretty good one, I realize.


End file.
